


Ficlet for Wincest Writing Challenge

by sci_fis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 13 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 21:43:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sci_fis/pseuds/sci_fis
Summary: Written for the Wincest Writing Challenge on Tumblr for the prompt "the boy without a conscience".





	Ficlet for Wincest Writing Challenge

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Sam clicks on the lights, and Dean turns to him. He doesn’t look surprised. He’s got a packed duffel slung over one shoulder: too much luggage for one hunt, assuming that’s where he’s off to.

They stare at each other in a silent game of chicken, as though each were daring the other to speak first. Sam takes the opportunity to drink his fill of looking at Dean; they've barely made eye contact over the last few days. Dean’s got the beginnings of circles under his eyes, the long, lean lines of his body taut with tension. He’s still the most beautiful person Sam’s ever known.

“What’d you want, Sammy?” Dean says finally.

“I asked you a question. Where are you going?” Sam takes a step forward. 

Dean doesn't move. “Out.”

“Were you planning on telling me?”

Dean lifts a careless shoulder. “Didn’t know you cared.”

“The fuck, Dean?” Sam curls his hands into loose fists to keep from reaching for Dean. “You—don’t you know better by now?” When Dean doesn’t respond—he merely keeps staring at Sam with that frighteningly blank gaze—Sam lowers his voice. “Are you going to come back?”

Dean finally looks away. “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe we need some time apart, y’know?”

“No. Dean, no. I have never needed that. Not from you.”

“It’s not like you care much about what I think these days, isn’t it?”

“Dean, you know that isn’t—”

“God damn it, Sam.” Dean slams his hand down on the table, inches from where they carved their initials into it an eternity ago. “You know you’d give me up in an instant for that—that thing you’re so desperate to save—”

“He’s a person,” Sam says, his voice shaking with anger. “As for giving you up? I’m not the one who’s giving anything up here, Dean. You’re the one who’s walking out on me.”

“He may look human,” Dean says, stubbornly fixated on Jack. “But do you really think he has a conscience? Huh? You think he cares about saving people? The family business isn’t for him, little brother. And the sooner you understand that, the sooner we can make some progress.”

“Progress toward _what_? You don't even believe we can save Mom.” Dean’s so taut that Sam knows it’s only a matter of moments before he snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. He steps up close, gently entering Dean’s space, steeling himself for a blow but reaching out nevertheless. They’ve always been tied together by invisible strings, and Sam holds on to that thought as his fingertips brush the cuff of Dean’s sleeve, ghosting over the warm skin of his inner wrist.

Dean doesn’t move, but his eyelids flutter shut. Encouraged, Sam curls his fingers loosely around Dean’s wrist. With his other hand, he reaches for the strap of the heavy duffel. Dean helps him out, shrugging off the bag and letting it fall to the floor with a heavy clunk.

“Sounds like you have an arsenal in there,” Sam murmurs against Dean’s hair. He dips his head to nuzzle in against Dean’s neck.

Dean’s hand comes up to tangle in Sam’s hair. “You play dirty, Sammy,” he says, soft, as Sam presses a kiss against his neck.

“Been dying to touch you,” Sam confesses, his face still hidden in Dean’s neck, afraid of what might happen if he meets Dean’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you?” Dean murmurs against his hair.

Sam snorts. “You’d have let me?”

“I’m letting you now, aren't I?” Dean pulls back, and Sam’s heart skips a beat. But then his brother’s warm, strong hands cup his face, and Sam finds himself pulled into a gentle, lingering kiss that makes want flood right through him until his toes are tingling.

“We aren’t done with this conversation,” Dean warns him when they come up for air. His hand grips Sam’s wrist, far more demanding than Sam’s had been.

“It can wait,” Sam manages to say before the heat in Dean’s eyes can make him completely speechless.

“It can wait,” Dean agrees, and leads the way to his bedroom. 

Sam hopes the memory foam still remembers him.


End file.
